


The One Where Sam Goes Out To Dinner

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's more stressful: lying to your brother, or having to go to dinner with someone who very recently starred in your masturbation fantasies? Not that Sam's complaining about that last bit, mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Sam Goes Out To Dinner

It’s Friday, and Sam doesn’t know where Gabriel is planning on taking him. To be honest, he doesn’t really care what the food is, whether it’s a suit and tie event or a bar that serves nothing but hot wings and burgers – now that he and Gabriel have actually _talked_ , have actually agreed to try this whole “us” thing out, he’s got bigger things to worry about.

Things like Dean.

Sam stares at Dean’s hand – he hadn’t noticed it yesterday or the day before, too caught up in his own nervousness and, later on, his happiness, but, now that he thinks about it, Dean had been wearing a bandage then, too. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“I fell,” Dean says shortly, and Sam, after a moment, shrugs. He gets the feeling that isn’t the entire truth, but…what else could it be?

“Must’ve been some fall.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Everything okay?”

Dean throws himself onto their couch, his boots dripping water everywhere. Sam glares at the offending footwear, but Dean doesn’t respond to his expression. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, you seem…nervous.”

“Well, I’m _not_.”

Sam backs off, raising his hands slightly. “All right! Jeez, no need to snap at me.”

“Sorry.” Dean falls moodily silent for what seems like a long time. Sam pulls off his gloves and sets them carefully down on the table next to the front door, beside Dean’s keys. The earmuffs feel heavy and oddly warm in his pocket as Dean says, “I…might have a date.”

Sam blinks, and then sticks his finger in his ear, twisting. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say that you have a _date_.”

“Don’t push it,” Dean says, and Sam drops his hand, staring at his brother. Dean is sprawled out on the couch, legs stretched out, hands tucked behind his head as he gazes up at the ceiling. He looks a little lonely, a little nervous, a little sad. Sam hopes that that’s going to change soon.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s just… _Really_? You’re not just telling me this because I’ve been hounding you about asking that guy out?”

“I didn’t ask him out because of you.”

Sam’s not sure how true that is – Dean isn’t big on change – but he’s happy nonetheless. “Even better.”

“So, are you going to tell me his name?”

“Joe,” Dean says quickly. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“No.”

“Come _on_ , Dean! He’s making you happy, right? When you’re not being a neurotic mess about everything, I mean. Don’t I deserve to know his name?”

“Yeah? What about _you_? What’s the name of _your_ boyfriend?”

Shit. Shit, shit, what is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say? He can’t keep putting this off forever, can’t keep this thing between him and Gabriel from Dean indefinitely. Sam hunches his shoulders, frowning down at his hands. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

 _Shit_.

He is so fucked.

“Oh please, Sam, we both know that –”

“I don’t, okay! I don’t. We didn’t…work out.”

That’s the beginning of the end, really. Now that he’s said it, he can’t take it back, and Dean is staring at him, first with disbelief, then with concern, then with something that looks a little bit like…suspicion? It’s not directed at Sam, though. Rather, it’s aimed somewhere over his shoulder, as if Dean is trying to look at someone who is very far away.

And Sam can’t take it back, and he can’t change his mind, and everything has been altered because of a split second of panic and indecision. All he can do now is try to make the best of it.

So long as Dean doesn’t try to go digging (and Dean is the type to push, when it comes to Sam, but he’s not the type to go to great lengths to unearth past secrets…is he?), Sam should be…maybe not okay, because he hates lying to Dean, and he hates that he’s apparently gotten _good_ at it, but he’ll be safe. Dean won’t find out about Gabriel, and Sam won’t pry into Dean’s newly revived love life, and as long as they both mind their own business they’ll be fine.

 _When have you ever known Dean to mind his own business?_

Sam glances away from his brother, groaning softly.

He is _so_ fucked.

~

Saturday finds Sam doing something that he’s never had to do before: helping Dean get dressed.

Not _literally_ , of course, but Dean’s so worked up over this date with his mystery guy that he starts panicking as soon as he rolls out of bed – or, Sam’s assuming, anyways, since the first thing he sees when he walks into Dean’s room is his brother standing in front of his tiny closet, shirt in one hand and a pair of jeans in the other, looking like someone’s just told him he’ll have to choose between Sam and the Impala, and the one he doesn’t choose gets dumped into a volcano. _That_ kind of stricken. Life or death worried. Which Sam finds, frankly, kind of funny. Never mind that he went through the same sort of anxiety a few days ago, preparing to go and meet Gabriel.

Eventually, though, Dean manages to dress himself, Sam manages to convince him that he looks fine, and then they play Call of Duty until twelve. Sam ends up making an extra pot of coffee, since Dean drinks most of the first.

And all the while, he’s sitting next to his brother on their ancient and battered couch, thinking about how the minute Dean leaves, he’s going to be going through this, too. Because Dean has a lunch date, but Sam has a _dinner_ date, and that’s…that’s more intimate, isn’t it? Breakfast is for families, and lunch is for friends and first dates, but dinner is for when you’re really interested in a person; he thinks he remembers Jessica telling him that, at some point. So does that mean Gabriel is _really_ interested in him? Beyond just…feeling things out?

What is he expecting of Sam, later on?

Dean leaves precisely at twelve, and Sam is pathetically grateful, because he’s not sure that he could have held his own worries in for much longer, not without them showing on his face. With the apartment to himself, he can do all the things that calm him down, the things that Dean’s presence would intrude on. Not to insult his brother…or, well, yeah, he’s actually fine with insulting his brother, but Dean is _loud_. He’s loud and he laughs at all the stupid things on TV, and he makes fun of Sam for doing the little idiosyncratic things that make him feel better. Like playing Massive Attack at full volume with the bass turned up, or lighting nice-smelling candles (which he has to hide in his room, so Dean doesn’t find them), or – and this is the deal-breaker for Dean – _baking_. He’s not particularly amazing at it, but there’s something about the technical precision of baking that lets Sam lose himself for a little while. It’s why he likes Thanksgiving just a little bit more than Christmas…at least, now that they have their own place, their own kitchen, that is, instead of a bucket of extra crispy. Presents are nice and all, and Sam likes picking things out for other people, but Thanksgiving is _all_ about food, and so he always goes a little bit overboard…within the context of their budget, of course.

So, as soon as Dean leaves, Sam breaks out the flour and the powdered sugar and starts measuring ingredients. Most of what he knows how to make comes from Jessica, who hadn’t been interested in baking herself, but who had inherited a great many cookbooks and recipe cards from her grandmother. This time, though, he’s trying something new. Something that doesn’t have any memories of former loves laced into the eggs and the vanilla extract.

He makes snowball cookies. They have some leftover walnuts from Christmas dinner, and they always have plenty of alcohol in the house (in this case, rum), and they seem like an appropriate sort of cookie to make during the winter. He’s never made them before, but how hard can it be?

Harder than he’d thought, as it turns out. He has difficulty creaming the sugar and shortening, and his cookies turn out lopsided and looking not at all like snowballs as he rolls them in the powdered sugar and sets them on a wire rack to cool, but, for a blessed hour, he doesn’t think about Gabriel in any context other than the superficial – what will he be wearing? Will it bring out his eyes? Gabriel has such oddly colored eyes, brown in any light other than the sun, but oh, how they glow when he tilts his head at just the right angle. Almost gold, Sam thinks, but gold like a ring that’s been lost in a forest, long covered with moss. Green flecks.

Sam thinks about Gabriel’s eyes as he rolls his cookies in sugar for the third and final time. Maybe he’ll take a few and put them in a baggie, once they’ve cooled, and bring them to Gabriel. Is that sort of thing out of the question? They’re going to be in a restaurant, after all.

 _Gabriel probably won’t care,_ he thinks. He’s got such a massive sweet tooth, after all. He’ll probably be thrilled.

And it’s at that point that Sam, abruptly and unpleasantly, realizes that he knows next to nothing about Gabriel; he knows only the sudden, overwhelming attraction that he feels, the exasperation over Gabriel’s lack of professionalism, the secret gratitude that said lack of professionalism has allowed Gabriel to ask him out. They are almost complete strangers, for all that they have known each other for several months, now. Sam knows nothing about Gabriel’s favorites, his family, his childhood, and Gabriel knows only what Sam has told him, which is to say very, very little.

And it is through this train of thought that Sam realizes something else.

He knows absolutely _nothing_ about guys.

“Shit,” he says, and then, louder, because Dean isn’t here and he doesn’t have to worry about being heard or found out, “ _Shit_!”

He quickly dumps the still-cooling snowball cookies into a Ziploc baggie, leaving it on the table so he doesn’t forget them if he decides to take a few to the restaurant, and then, with a combination of determination and terror speeding him along, he marches into his room and heads straight for his laptop.

~

Two hours later (and still with plenty of time left for him to panic about what he’s going to wear to the restaurant), Sam leans away from his laptop after being inundated with porn for the third time in a row. Which is, you know, _illuminating_ and all, but it’s not exactly what he’s looking for. There’s stimulus and then there’s information, and, having lived with Dean for most of his life, Sam had long ago learned the difference between real life and porn.

Unfortunately, the internet has a bias towards smut, and so Sam’s been wading through various search terms for the past two hours, trying to find ones that don’t spam him with pop-ups. It doesn’t help that he’s not looking for anything in particular, which makes it difficult to narrow his search down. Still, he keeps trying. He’s found a few websites that have been a _little_ bit helpful, but they all seem to be written by…well, by people who have differing opinions.

It doesn’t help that he keeps flushing so hard that he needs to stop and breathe for a few minutes.

“Okay,” he says, and clicks another link, one that looks promising. It’s marketed as an informational site, not a leisure site, so there’s that. He scrolls through the various articles it has – things on how to tell if you might be gay, how to approach the guy or girl you’re interested in…A few of the articles lay out the opinions Sam had seen on other sites, listing the pros and cons of each. It’s helpful. It’s _factual_ , and Sam does well with facts. They’re easier to parse, easier to organize, and within fifteen minutes he’s noticed the common threads that every single article has running through it.

 _There is no such thing as too gay or not gay enough. Just be yourself. Figure out what you like. Explore yourself. Do what feels right._

There’s a lot of other stuff, too, stuff about silicone-based lubricants and videos and anatomy charts, all things that Sam scrolls quickly past, because he and Gabriel are just going out to dinner, and it’s not going to come to _that_ , is it? But the other things…it’s the closest he’s gotten to a “how to be gay” instruction manual. Or, he supposes, how to be bisexual, in his case. Just being himself is all well and good, but Sam grew up with Dean, and Dean, for all that he doesn’t care what the genitals of his partners _are_ , let alone what they look like, gave Sam the birds and the bees talk, not the birds and the birds talk. And every school Sam has ever been in has taught about condoms, but not dental dams, pregnancy but not appropriate kinds of lube. It’s one of the failings of the American education system, and it’s something that Sam, because he’s never known anything different, has never actively tried to correct in his mind.

He had always subconsciously thought that everyone around him was straight until proven otherwise. Everything feels different, now that he’s realized that that isn’t the case. Not just about everyone else in the world, but about _himself_.

Sam glances at the clock in the upper corner of his laptop’s screen – it’s almost 2:30. Plenty of time for him to go through the articles’ commonalities one by one, and still have time left over to get ready and then walk down to the CVS.

The first one – there’s no such thing as too gay or not gay enough. He’s ninety-nine percent certain that’s a reference to stereotypes. Sam knows plenty about the whole machismo fuck-everything-pummel-what-can’t-be-fucked thing that Dean has going on, and he knows it’s as big a pile of bullshit as most every other stereotype out there, so this can’t be too different, right? It ties in with item two – be yourself. The gist of it, he thinks, is that if the person – Gabriel, in his case – is right for him, he won’t care whether Sam wears cotton or silk, whether he likes Wilco or Lady GaGa, or whether he prefers action movies or romantic comedies. The whole point is that Gabriel has asked him out already, without knowing _any_ of those things. The uncertainty didn’t change his opinion at all. Sam, at least, has that going for him.

The last three, though, are more difficult. Not confusing, not at all, just...hard to put into practice. Sam knows what he likes, but he knows what he likes _in the context of women_ , and in the context of himself. Not…with another guy. Not with Gabriel.

 _Explore yourself._

It’s 2:36, and Dean still isn’t back from his lunch date. Either he’s still with his potential boyfriend, or he’s out driving, trying to clear his head. They live in a college town, sure, but once you get past the outskirts there’s nothing but woodlands and dark, twisty back roads for miles. Dean might be out there, despite the cold and the sad, slushy remnants of snow, figuring things out on his own.

Plenty of time, he keeps reminding himself. Plenty of time.

He closes out of all his windows and then locks his laptop before shutting it, fairly certain that Dean won’t be back any time soon, but still not wanting to take any chances. Then he wanders into his bedroom, hesitant, like he’s not actually sure he wants to be there.

 _Explore yourself_.

He’s pretty sure that the article had meant that phrase in a _non_ -literal context. Finding out what you feel comfortable with by…he’s not sure. Reading other articles, maybe. But his father – and Dean, later on, when it became apparent that John Winchester was less interested in sons than he was in soldiers – had taught him that practical application was key to understanding difficult concepts. Sam had learned how to replace a car battery, how to open up and fix a television, and how to clean and reload a pistol based on that theory, that _learning_ something is only the first step. Then you have to go out and put to use what you’ve learned.

Sam doesn’t know if sexuality falls under the realm of “difficult concepts,” but he can’t think of anywhere else to put it.

He locks the door and then absently undoes his belt and then shucks his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off and letting them land where they may as he drifts towards his bed. He leaves his shirt on, unsure of whether he wants to try all the things that some of the racier articles had mentioned. He’s never paid much attention to his nipples before, or his navel, to be honest, and he doesn’t think it’s going to do much if he starts now. Half of the pleasure of trying new things is the person you’re trying them with. At least, that was how it had been with Jessica. Maybe it hadn’t been the same for her.

More confused than nervous at this point, Sam falls down upon his bed, not bothering to arrange himself in a pretty or orderly fashion, and then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down, leaving them stretched around his thighs. Exploring. Right. Well, he’s already fairly comfortable with his body, already knows what he likes when he’s jerking off on his own, but the thing now is for him to get used to…thinking about Gabriel. Imagining Gabriel doing these things to him. Or, fuck, maybe he should start with someone else? Picture Ewan McGregor or Liam Neeson or something, just to…Because what if he actually likes a different type of guy? What if he’s just so thrilled that Gabriel is paying attention to him that he’s assuming the guy is all he wants? Never mind that Sam had probably felt that little zing of attraction _first_ , back when all he had thought of Gabriel was that he was a frustrating, unprofessional ass.

Gabriel’s ass. Sam hasn’t given it much thought before now, too caught up in the color of Gabriel’s eyes and the fierceness of his smile, but Gabriel’s got a nice ass. Sam gets the feeling that he runs or something, because a desk job doesn’t give you muscles like that. Not that he’s _ripped_ , though – he’s lean, and he gives the impression of length even though he’s not all that tall. And his _body_. Gabriel’s not all golden tan like he’s just come back from Miami, but he’s this…healthy, tawny sort of color. Except the color doesn’t come from his skin, but from other place, like it bleeds out from inside him.

Sam glances down at his hand, fingertips splayed out, as it sweeps over his stomach. He’s half-hard, now, caught between uncertainty and hesitant excitement and rapidly tipping over the edge into full-blown arousal. He cautiously smoothes his hand lower, certain that any minute now he’ll remember how long and awkward he is, how he’s not inclined towards seduction at _all_ , and he’ll pull his pants back on and then he’ll go and lose himself in Halo for another hour or so, and…

 _What’re you doing, kiddo?_

Sam lets his head fall back onto the corner of the pillow, groaning as his fingers card through the thick hair at the base of his cock. Soft. He tries to picture Gabriel – is he shaved? Chest hair? He’s probably cut, but how interesting would it be if he weren’t?

 _Stop thinking about what might be true and focus on what you already know._

Logically, Sam knows that Gabriel isn’t really here…but it’s so easy to picture him sitting at the foot of the bed, smiling, and then he’d say something about how Sam looks good, all spread out like this, but he’d look even better if there was some chocolate sauce involved…

 _See? You know me. Now stop doubting yourself and show me what those big hands can do._

He’s lost it. He’s really, truly lost it, but that doesn’t stop Sam from biting his lip and then, tentatively, taking hold of his dick. How long’s it been since he last did this? Correction: since he last did this _consciously_ , not just as a perfunctory act in the shower? When was the last time he stopped and actually enjoyed himself?

It feels like it’s been forever as he gives himself an experimental stroke, a groan ripping its way out of him and hovering in the air. If Gabriel were here, he would…

 _That’s it, Sam. Don’t hold back. You’re big, aren’t you? Everything about you is big. I like that. Spread your legs, Sam, let me see your fat cock._

Gabriel wouldn’t talk like that. At least…Sam doesn’t _think_ so, because he’s never heard _anyone_ talk like that. Not outside of pornos, anyways. Still, it hooks something in him, and he does as his mental image of Gabriel commands, letting his legs fall as far apart as he can, and then, when that proves difficult, he clumsily paws at his boxers with his other hand until they fall down around his feet.

 _You’ve been doing some reading. I like that, too. I like the studious type. Remember what the articles said about sensitivity? Move your hand a little faster. Good. Now take your other hand and…_

He knows exactly what Gabriel’s talking about, and he remembers the article in question with oddly clinical detail. It had been talking about…God, he has trouble even thinking it, but… _anal stimulation_ – exact words – and how not every guy is into it. Not every guy is sensitive enough to appreciate it, and some guys are _too_ sensitive. Like, it overloads them and it feels more like pain than pleasure. Sam rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, shuddering, stroking himself slower, then faster, trying to make the sensation last longer. It doesn’t feel like someone is watching him, and he thinks that’s the saddest part, because how hot would it be if Gabriel _were_ here? Sam’s never thought of doing something like that before, but Gabriel, apparently, brings out shadows in him. Makes him 3D instead of just flat.

 _Do it. Touch yourself. Tell me how you like it._

“I like it,” Sam gasps, and tries to picture himself as Gabriel might see him: mouth slightly open, lips red from him biting them, spit-slick and shiny, his cock flushed dark with blood and heavy against his belly as he slides the fingers of his other hand into his mouth, getting them wet. His head tossed back against the pillow as he pulls his fingers out and trails them down his body, down between his legs to…

“Oh, fuck,” he says, because it’s weird to suddenly find out that a part of your body, that you had previously thought of as being strictly utilitarian, not only has nerve endings, but has _sensitive_ nerve endings. He presses his slick thumb up against his perineum, and he doesn’t know if it’s the wetness or the pressure, but suddenly he’s leaking pre-come all over his fist, like he just flipped a switch in his brain from “ready to go” to “turbo.” It’s not painful, and it’s not just the feel of his finger pushing there; it’s like…Jesus Christ, it’s this weird, internal pleasure and heat where he’s used to the _external_ , and it’s wonderful and strange and…

 _Just picture all the things I want to do to you, Sam. Imagine those are my hands instead of yours. Imagine me blowing you. I bet you’d make my jaw ache, yeah? Or maybe we could blow each other, make a game of it. See who comes first. Or – and here’s a thought – maybe I could lick you there. Remember that porno you saw when you were fourteen? Dean left it out because he didn’t think you’d be coming home early, and he was in the bathroom while the TV was still on, and the girl was going down on the guy, except then she lifted his legs up and pushed her face between his legs and licked him like an ice cream cone. Want me to do that to you? Want to try that with me?_

It’s just talk, and it’s not even really Gabriel _talking_ , but the mental images that spool out behind his closed eyes are vivid enough that they might as well be memories, and Sam groans, deep and rumbling in his chest, as he jerks himself once, twice more, and then comes with a shout that, were Dean there, would convince his brother that he was being murdered.

 _Just like that_ , he hears, or _thinks_ he hears, and then whatever it was in his brain that allowed him to imagine Gabriel in such vividness clicks off, and he is suddenly alone – more alone – in his bedroom. He’s just Sam, lying half-on and half-off his bed, legs spread embarrassingly far apart, fist covered in come. Grimacing, he gingerly closes his legs and then reaches, with his clean hand, for the box of Kleenex on his nightstand. He cleans himself off as best he can, realizes that he needs a shower if he actually wants to look presentable for his date, and then promptly panics.

His date. His date is tonight. He’d known it before and he’d still decided to do this, but _shit_ , his date is _tonight_ , and he’s just gone and ruined everything because all he’ll be able to think about, the _entire_ time, is how he jerked off with Gabriel’s image in his head a few hours ago, and…

 _Take a deep breath._

It’s not Gabriel’s voice, only his own, but Sam does as it says anyways, tilting his head back on the pillow and breathing in, slow and deep, then exhaling all at once.

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Okay.” He can deal with this. This doesn’t have to make the date completely awkward. If he thinks about what he did a few times, so what? He’ll be sitting down while they’re eating, won’t he? So that takes care of the… _arousal_ possibility. And as long as he doesn’t somehow bring it ip in conversation (“Funniest thing happened while I was getting ready for tonight…”), Gabriel never has to know what he did. Or, at least, Gabriel doesn’t have to know _now_.

Feeling disjointed and still slightly fragile, Sam pushes himself up from his bed, lets his boxers drop the rest of the way to the floor, and then goes to take a quick, _cold_ shower.

~

It’s half past five and Sam has been dressed and ready for almost an hour. Choosing something to wear had been nowhere near as fraught with insecurity and indecision as the last time he went to meet Gabriel, probably because he’s been thinking about this moment, on and off, since Thursday. What would look better, jeans or slacks? Should he wear cologne? Sam owns precisely one bottle of cologne, and Dean, with his usual insensitivity, tells him it makes him smell like a delicate French woman, but Sam likes it. It’s lighter than most other colognes, more subtle. He doesn’t expect Dean to appreciate that sort of thing; there was a point in Dean’s life where he forewent actual deodorant and wore nothing but Axe body spray. Sam has since ceased to trust his brother’s sense of smell.

But, the point is that he’s been thinking about this for a few days now, and Sam had known, if not _exactly_ what to wear, then at least the gist of it. Nice jeans, rather than slacks. A nice shirt, a dress shirt, even. Nice shoes. Cologne. The earmuffs Gabriel had given him, not because they go with his outfit, but because it’s cold outside, and it seems…practical.

It’s certainly not because he can no longer picture himself going outside without them.

So: nice jeans. Nice shirt. Sam looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, smoothing out the bottom of his shirt, and then steps back. He’s worried that if he keeps looking at himself he’ll start to worry, and if he starts to worry he’ll completely forget about the date itself. Which would be bad. _Horrible_.

It’s almost six. It will take him maybe five minutes to walk down to the CVS.

Sam grabs his jacket, his keys, and then slips his earmuffs over his head and walks out the door.

It isn’t snowing, but the sky is dark with impedning evening and scudded with storm clouds. Sam walks quickly, hands shoved down deep into the pockets of his jacket in defense against each freezing burst of wind; his jacket is zipped all the way up to his chin, and his ears are warm. The wind ruffles the fur of the earmuffs, and it takes him roughly seven minutes to walk down to the CVS, due to a car accident on the main road.

The CVS parking lot is almost completely empty, save for the cars of the people who work there, and a small, light blue Datsun that Sam doesn’t recognize.

Lying in the back seat of the car, the windows rolled down and with his legs hanging half in and half out, is Gabriel.

And all Sam can focus on is, _I just jerked off while thinking about you._

He clears his throat, loud enough to be heard over the whistle of the wind and the sound of the traffic, and Gabriel starts, and then pulls his legs back into the car. Sam watches him scramble to get himself straightened out, laughing softly – more to cover his own nervousness than out of any genuine mirth – as Gabriel pushes open the back door and slips out into the cold.

He’s wearing a suit.

Maybe not a prom-or-wedding type suit, there’s nothing of the tuxedo about it, but it’s definitely a suit, and Sam feels, suddenly, underdressed and outclasses. What the fuck was he thinking, wearing jeans and a dress shirt to a first date? Gabriel obviously has something fancy planned, and…

“Shit,” Gabriel says. “I knew I should have worn jeans.”

Sam blinks. “Huh?”

The wind whistles around them, making Gabriel shiver and sending chills down Sam’s spine in sympathy. Gabriel gestures down at himself, at his suit, dark navy blue and highlighting all the gold that seems to emanate from somewhere inside Gabriel, from his eyes, from his hair. The setting sun, now almost gone from the sky entirely, brings out the best in him.

“Castiel,” he says, and there’s exasperated fondness in his voice. “He said to wear something respectable. This is the only respectable thing I have, aside from…what I asked you out in. I thought it’d be poor form to wear the same thing twice, though.”

Sam laughs, nervous, a little startled, but mostly pleased. “I wasn’t sure if we were going someplace…fancy. I thought, you know, jeans and a nice shirt…that’s standard, right?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been out on a date since…oh, since _I_ was in college. Long time ago.” Gabriel clears his throat, and then gestures towards the car. “That was…sort of something I wanted to talk to you about. Just to put it on the table. But…out of the cold?”

That…doesn’t sound _good_ , but Gabriel is smiling, a little bit, so it can’t be _terrible_ , right? Sam glances at the car, old but obviously well cared for, and then walks around to the passenger side and climbs in. Gabriel joins him a few seconds later, immediately turning on the engine and running the heater. Sam unzips his jacket and pulls it down over his shoulders, letting it fall around the middle of his belly.

Gabriel watches him, eyes luminous amber as the fading sunlight arcs through the car windows and catches him at just the right angle. He looks simultaneously earthy and holy, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat.

“I just wanted to make sure you know what you’re getting into,” Gabriel says softly. He turns his head away, and Sam feels bereft. “What you…want. You’re, what, twenty?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Oh. That’s…better. But I’m thirty-five, Sam. I am… _way_ past the age where I was cool with being someone’s experimental phase, and I just…”

“Gabriel,” Sam says, and then he leans sideways, an awkward angle, to be sure, but he manages, and Gabriel turns towards him at just the right moment, exactly the right time to make it perfect instead of horribly awkward. Their lips catch, and Gabriel makes a soft, startled sound, deep in his throat.

But he doesn’t pull away.

A moment later, he kisses back. Slow, experimental, gentle.

Yes. Perfect. The movement of their lips, the way Gabriel huffs against Sam’s cheek as they finally pull apart, the rattle of the heater, the windows fogging around them.

“Oh,” Gabriel says. “That was…”

“It’s not an experiment.”

“Ah.”

Sam bites his bottom lip, and Gabriel watches the movement. Watches like it’s something he wants. Sam feels a hot shiver course down the length of him, pooling somewhere in his gut and collecting there.

“So.” Gabriel’s voice is careful, like he’s getting ready to try and pet a wild tiger. “Dinner?”

And Sam can only smile. “Lead the way,” he says, and cannot _stop_ smiling as they finally pull out of the parking lot. He doesn’t know where they’re going, both tonight and in the greater scheme of things, but he knows that they’ll get there eventually, and that’s good enough for him.  



End file.
